#scavenger writes

[ask-the-pioneer]

Marbles approaches the tribe's trading square, where countless items are spread neatly on fabric mats. Food, weapons, vessels, bags... strings of pearls shimmering in the sun. Bingo! Perhaps she could persuade the scavengers to trade some of them.

Two individuals come out from the nearby shelter entrance. Sage - the head merchant and chronicler, and Spike - the tribe chieftain, greet their new slugcat guest in person.

"SALUTATIONS. YOU HAVE PEARLS?" Marbles signs with her hands. The two scavs look at her, unsure of the scug's intentions.

"Um… I WANT BUY PEARLS. YOU GIVE ME PEARLS, I GIVE YOU…" she pauses, and looks around. Spotting a spear nearby, she hops up to it and grabs it, then ties a piece of cloth around one of its ends and puts it in her maw. The scavengers tense up, their frills stand on ends. Why would this new guest pick up the weapon if not to use it? The guards nearby do not seem to like it either - they clutch their own spears in anticipation, watching the situation closely.

"I GIVE YOU EXPLODING SPEARS. YOU WANT?" Marbles says as she hands them a nicely crafted spear with a deep orange tint on one end. The cloth smells vaguely of sulphur.

"YOU MAKE EXPLOSIVES? WITH MOUTH? HOW!?" The scavs' eyes widen.

"MY SKILL. USEFUL! I MAKE SPEARS FOR YOU, YOU GIVE ME PEARLS. GOOD?"

Spike and Sage look at each other, barely believing what they just saw.

"…YOU CAN MAKE MORE?" The chieftain glances at Marbles. She nods her head in response.

Sage pulls their friend aside for a moment. There is urgency in their voice. "The tribute, Spike. Imagine if we sent two dozen of those spears to Metropolis. We'd earn favour and protection for at least a season, if not longer!"

The chieftain nods. "Yes… this opportunity is too convenient to pass up. Bring the pearls and calculate the exchange rate, but test those spears first. If they are usable, bring her whatever she needs to make more of them. I would still caution everyone to be careful, though."

"YES, GOOD. WE WILL GIVE PEARLS. SETTLE DOWN PLEASE, OTHERS WILL BRING YOU MATERIALS..."

[naffeclipse]

Forget-me-not

Reader x Sun and Moon

Commission Info

Thank you for @robinette-green for the lovely request! I adored writing this and making the boys so sweet to the reader! The reader is a clockwork animatronic who's trapped in an abandoned circus, and Sun and Moon step foot onto the forgotten ground and find someone in need of their help.

———

You watch another golden glow creep into oblivion upon the abandoned carnival and its sad, lonely inhabitants. The sun withdraws soundlessly like a stranger passing by. The Freak Show sign slumps, depressed. The once golden and galloping horses in the carousel have rusted into cruel, dark hues and no longer stamp or throw their wild manes back while children ride their once beautiful, gleaming saddles. The big tent—it hasn’t been big in years. It lies in sore tatters, wet from yesterday’s rainstorm with poles sticking up high and stringing along broken bulbs of once bright, yellow lights illuminating the darkness, promising fun to the humans who stepped onto the fairgrounds. 

You hate the darkness. You hate it more than being bolted down in place and left to host a game of ring toss no one has played in years. Your right arm is still extended in invitation over the green and brown bottles. The carnival owner couldn’t even allow you both of your arms, pinning your stance into place with bolts and leaving only your left hand to occasionally wave and flutter to catch the attendee’s eyes. 

After all the trouble he went to steal you away from your creator, you thought he would at least have taken you with him when the bright, colorful lights and happy, bouncing music came to a halt.

The soft words of your creator ring distantly, like a voice calling out through fog. You are—were his most beautiful creation. He whispered the words to you while he painted your lips red and bid you to take a look in the mirror.

You agreed. You were so, so pretty.

Perhaps it’s for the best that you don’t know what you look like anymore. You don’t want to look upon how rusted your clockwork inner workings have become. Your once pale and milky porcelain skin might be gray and slushy as the dirt along the pathways guests took, and that is not something you wish to know. There’s no doubt your red lips and silky red hair have been forsaken to the elements. You fear you are ruined. 

You are now worthy of abandonment.

In the darkness, you truly are forgotten. A hitch within your clockwork chassis catches and grinds before continuing, but the scraping pain remains.

Your attention is drawn back to the front entrance, a good distance away from you. Half crumbled with support beats cutting over the access in an ‘X’ shape, like a warning to not trespass this decrepit lot, shadows slink over the splintered and rotted wood. Long, lanky umbras move with a silence that is so strange and careful.

You squint your eyes. The urge to tilt your head slightly to peer better at the disturbance is cut short by the bolt in your neck, refusing to let your head tilt save from a slight side to side to give an enthralling smile.

You shouldn’t get too excited. It’s likely mere animals. A pair of raccoons or a stray dog who has lost its owner. Once, you watched a doe deer step softly through the wretched ruins, big wet eyes turning to you for one moment before the blurt of your automated voice lines jumped from your throat and sent the creature bounding away.

Nothing is yours here, not even the moment of daydreaming of you prancing out of this forsaken carnival like a doe deer. Free.

The shadows mingle into the dusky darkness. The blue-gray twilight reveals figures, and your mechanical heart chokes.

Two personages creep along the path winding from the entranceway. The same path leading directly towards the ring toss game; towards you. One dons a thick hood and cape, dark blue like midnight. The other’s head is sharper and unconcealed. A crown of jutting points frame the figure’s disk-like face, and a thick deep brown shawl gathers at his throat and falls down his chest and arms. 

As they pass into a silvery slant of budding starlight, metal glints on the crowned one’s face and the other hooded person’s hands spray out while scanning the darkness for threats, silver digits curling and uncurling.

Two automatons. Like you. But not.

A whirl in your servos thrums a loud, exhausted sound, and you stiffen—as much as you can while bolted in place. 

What could two automatons want with an abandoned circus? You were never familiar with the world outside of your creator’s home before you were smuggled out against your will by the circus owner, but at the circus, you learned much. 

You learned of scavengers and automatons gaining their rights. You always wonder if that’s partly the reason you were left here to rot too—are you too human now to own but robotic enough to be neglected? 

They could spy on you in the darkness and decide to strip you for parts. Your clockwork clanks heavily within you like a clapper within a bell, beating against your brass heart. Can they hear it? You have to stop. Be quiet. 

The two automatons prowl forward. Their optics and audio processors strain not unlike hounds searching for a fox. What do they prey upon? The crowned one gestures towards the carousel, the ride well within distance to your ring toss game, and you must clench your jaw tightly to keep from whimpering. The hooded one dips his head but keeps moving forward. Your gears crank in jarring motions, jolting and jerking while you hope they take the parts they desire from the circus and leave.

The hooded one continues down the path. Your chassis tightens, and your fingers tremble in place while you keep your eyes averted, held above the automaton’s head but keeping him in the unfocused corners of your optics.

Please. Please, don’t. Your bottom lip quivers.

“Step right up and toss a ring to win a prize!” The words blurt from your mouth and startle all the ruins and everyone within.

Two pairs of glowing eyes fall upon you. Straightening and alerted, the shrouded automatons stare into your fluttering eyelids as you attempt to beg them to leave you alone. A spark burns in your throat. Your voice lines refuse to give.

One stops and reaches silver and blue digits up and lowers the hood slowly. A face gazes at you, scarlet eyes glowing in the darkness with a face like a crescent moon. A blue nightcap, slightly frayed and worn, and decorated in yellow stars, covers his circular faceplate. 

The other steps closer with a curious tilt of the sharp points framing the automation’s head, and enters the last of the blue-gray darkness before night completely takes over. A yellow face, grinning with round cheeks, observes you. Pale optics beam. 

“Hello, friend,” he speaks, voice bouncing low but with intrigue. “Why don’t you come on out? It’s alright, don’t be afraid.”

Your optics dart side to side. Helplessness settles over you, pinned in place by rusty, dark shame. 

“Do you need help?” The one with the pale yellow sun rays steps closer, his eyes narrowing in the slightest. “Are you stuck?”

The moon-face automaton slips closer. The glow of his gaze sweeps over the game you’re bolted in front of, and he fixates on your right arm stiffly held out in invitation as your fingers curl and clench. You glance down at him, wondering if your eyes plead in the way your mouth cannot.

Biting your bottom lip does not prevent another voice line from bursting forth, and inwardly, you crumple.

“Try your hand! One ring around the neck of a bottle wins a prize!” 

“Not stuck,” the lunar automaton turns to his accomplice. His cloak shifts like shadows under the arc of the moon. “Trapped.”

“Oh, you poor thing! Here, let us help.” The sunny one steps forward, his hands raised as if to pacify a wild creature. “And, if I may be so bold, your voice box sounds like it’s not your own.”

You wish to nod but only succeed in cranking your head halfway to the right, as if in a gesture towards your hapless situation. 

You wonder if they can see the ugly, rusty bolts pinning your body in place, holding you shackled to the ring toss game. They must, for the lunar face man slips closer, stooping down by your feet behind the barrier as he inspects the heavy metal securing you in place. The solar gentleman energetically leaps over the barrier and stops right beside you, hand on his hips. His shawl drapes darkly around him but his grin is bright like a new dawn.

You don’t dare hope. The niceness will fall away like a curtain to reveal the snarling, roaring beast behind it. They will strip you for parts or worse, mock you, revel in your helplessness, and slip back through the night, leaving you with only the daydream of a rescue.

Facing the sunny one, you hold your metaphorical breath as he pauses. He stares deeply into your optics. You stare back into the foggy gray irises he possesses, like a cool, misty fog gathering in the night only to be touched by the sun’s first rays of light. 

“Your eyes are beautiful—the same color as forget-me-nots.” The sunny automaton smiles.

Your servos slow to a calm hum.

“Come on,” he says and carefully reaches for your neck to begin unscrewing the bolt stuck in your throat, “You won’t be left to rust here anymore, starlight.”

Your insides melt, touched by their generosity.

Below, at your feet, the dark blue and silver automaton begins to unscrew the bolts holding your feet down. Rust scrapes away and a harsh squeak of metal echoes. You grunt, jostled but, strangely, you hold to hope like a feathered, tiny thing in your hands, hoping to watch it fly again. 

“We can fix your voice box,” the lunar one speaks in a slight rasp you find endearing. His gaze remains focused on setting you free. “We have a shop. We repair things sometimes.”

“That’s right,” the solar one chimes in, “We scavenge as well. Don’t worry, we’ve repaired a few automatons or two. You can trust us.”

When he pries the bolt from your neck, you can dip your head in acknowledgment. A strange sensation burns through your wires, heating you from the inside out. Emotion. You wish you could ask for their names.

“You look very delicate.” The one at your feet finally frees one of your porcelain slippers with a slow, cautious tug. “We’ll be gentle.”

He tilts his head upwards and flashes a grin. You find yourself warming in the face. Is he being a tease or does he not know how he sounds? By the mischievous glint in your eyes, you fear he knows exactly what he’s doing.

You try to pry your lips apart to find the right words, but all that leaves you is “Enjoy lots of fun! For a small price, of course!”

The automaton of yellow and gray hues glances briefly at you, tilting his heading in confusion while he begins to loosen the bolt stabbed into your right elbow. Holding his gaze, you speak with your eyes, almost pleading.

What are your names?

A spark of understanding answers in his pale optics, and he gasps.

“Moon, where are our manners? I’m so sorry, starlight! My name is Sun, and this is Moon.”

You dip your head again, bobbing up and down in excitement. You know their names. You haven’t learned anything new about anyone in so long…

When they free you from the ring toss game, you can hardly believe how the muddy path now leads you to the outside of the circus as Sun holds you gently in his grasp, how their strides are sure-footed and smooth, and how they look at you with concern.  

You vow silently to speak their names the moment your voice is free too.

*

You haven’t seen anything outside of the carnival in so long, you’ve almost forgotten the sight of dark, shiny paved streets and the lone lamp posts that light the way. Gray and dreary buildings line the streets. One, however, is cheerfully plastered in wooden stars painted bright yellow, and the door is a soft, sky blue with white fluffy clouds along the very top. 

Sun and Moon take turns carrying you. Their hands are careful, cradling you close against their cloak and shawl while murmuring that it’s alright. You’re safe. They’ll get you fixed up in no time. Moon cradles you in his arms now as Sun unlocks the door, and holds it open so you can be carried over the threshold. 

For an odd reason, it triggers your faceplate to heat up more than the colored rouge on the porcelain should allow.

Through the door, the interior of the workshop is set with tools ranging from smallest to biggest, shelves containing boxes marked, and small containers with different, shiny nuts and bolts. There are even some small containers with shiny, bronze gears. You haven’t seen a spotless floor in so long. There were always leaves and mud staining the path serpentining through the carnival. 

A table, coppery under a work lamp, awaits. 

“I’m setting you here,” Moon murmurs close to your audio processor before he lays you softly down with a gentle click of your frame against the metal. 

“I worry about how long you were left there.” Sun loses the shawl and locates a brown leather apron. Tools line the pockets as he swiftly ties it behind his back. His eyes are creased though he still smiles reassuringly. “By the amount of rust, I would guess years. For your sake, I hope I’m wrong.”

The answer is on the tip of your tongue. What comes out instead is a showy voice declaring “Whoever can ring three bottles wins the ultimate prize!” 

A whirl in your servos practically screams out your embarrassment. You lower your gaze. The stiffness in your joints is almost as unbearable as the voice lines the circus owner forced upon you. 

“Shush,” Moon says, his cloak falling away as he snags an apron similar to Sun’s off of a hook. “Wait for a moment, pretty thing, then you may have your words back.”

“That’s right,” Sun nods and shifts to stand close beside you. He grows still for a moment, his bright disposition falling behind a somber cloud. “We’re very lucky to have found you.”

You smile—not the forced, showy smile that has been plastered on your face while you lie in the ruins, but a true smile for the ones who rescued you.

Moon moves to the other side of the table. His hands, now gloved in black leather, hesitate. 

“We will open you up now.” The automaton turns flush along the spindle support of his neck. “Is that alright? It’s the only way we can fix your voice box.”

Sun leans forward, his smile still cheery while he modestly averts his eyes, “As well any other damage done from being exposed and negligent for… however long you were out there.” 

You never thought the solar automaton could be shy, and yet. 

You nod your head as it rests on the table. You feel safe, so much more so than when you were bolted in place. The circus owner did not ask you what you wanted then.

Moon and Sun move in tandem. It’s strange and beautiful, how effortlessly they weave their fingers to begin work. Sun unlocks your chassis and Moon gently lifts it open. You throw your gaze to the ceiling. You don’t want to know. You know they will find it horrible and awful, but you don’t want to see it and have it seared into your mind.

“You’re beautiful,” Moon utters.

You blink, as breathless as a machine can become.

“Your clockwork—is very beautiful,” a slight stumble from his raspy voice seals your fate. You say nothing. You press your lips together and wonder if you might overheat right here and now. 

“You are pretty,” Sun continues effortlessly, though there’s a slight trill to his voice that may give away his nervousness or bashfulness, you can’t decide. “Clockwork automatons are rare.”

The circus owner made mention of that.

You close your eyes as Sun and Moon narrate their every movement. Hands held down by your sides, you only occasionally shift or softly buzz as they clean and fix your voice box nestled within the bottom of your throat. They are so gentle. You never knew hands could be so kind, even if they are rummaging through your inner workings. 

Could they possibly let you stay?

The absurd thought enters your processor and you almost immediately shove it into a box and bury it deep into cold, black soil. 

“You’re doing so good.” Sun grins as he looks down into your chassis. “There. That should do it. Moon?”

“I’m done.”

Slowly, carefully, as if finishing a sacred rite, the two close up your chassis and tighten it back into place. You haven’t opened your eyes yet. A part of you wonders if you’ll only look out into the ruins of the circus again, and find this was all one blissful moment of a daydream. 

“Can you say something, starlight?” Sun’s voice washes over you.

“It’s alright if you’re not ready,” Moon answers in a low sound of comfort.

It falls past your lips before you realize you are not ready, but you so terribly want to speak anyway.

“Thank you.” Your eyes flash open, and you gape—the echo. Your soft, demure tones no longer strained into shouting and calling attention. 

It’s you.

Your hand touches your lips, and a sound between a laugh and a sob emerges from your voice box. 

“Thank you! Thank you!” You look between the two of them, overwhelmed. With the overhead lamp now touching their features as they sit back, grinning, you get to admire their handsome features. 

You two are very striking.

“Oh, my,” Sun chuckles, bleeding red in the cheeks, “Thank you!”

“You’re very sweet,” Moon murmurs, touching his nightcap with a slight bashfulness.

And you realize you spoke your thoughts out loud. You called them striking.

“Oh,” you begin to burn.

“It’s alright,” Moon says swiftly, interrupting your apology. “We would like to know what your plans are after this. Now that you’re free.”

“Free,” you whisper back. You clutch at your chest, over your clockwork heart, and marvel. “I…”

You have your voice back. Use it.

“I—if I may be so bold, may I ask to stay with you both? I won’t be a burden. I won’t stay longer than you will allow, and I—”

Sun sighs, dramatic and cheerful, as he finds your hand to hold it. 

“I thought you would never ask, starlight!”

Moon’s hand slips under your anxious fingers. His nod echoes his solar counterpart’s enthusiasm. You turn your head between both of them, your lips parting in awe.

“Thank you,” you whisper. “Sun. Moon. Thank you.”

[fulcrum-art-fox]

Kinda obsessed with the scene just before Azi and Ursula hit the Demeter and they pause to appraise the situation and Azi wordlessly rubs her wrists, still sore with cuts and rope burn. The people who did that to her, tied her up and left her to die, are ahead. She’ll undoubtedly be facing them. She wants to face them; face Kris. But she’s just been through something awful at their hands and she’s traumatised. And Ursula sees her rubbing her wrists and immediately gets the knife out to give to her. Ursula saw Azi at the most helpless and vulnerable she’d ever felt. She rescued her, and now she sees Azi’s pain and intuitively extrapolates how she must be feeling preparing to face them again, and her response is to give her a tool, and in doing so she gives her back some power, some agency, some control. It deprives Ursula herself of that tool, but Azi clearly needed the reassurance, so Ursula gives it to her. It’s the exact opposite and the perfect antidote to everything Kris stood for. Where Kris was controlling, impressing upon others her own agenda with little care for their personal needs, Ursula here demonstrates observation of others emotional needs and does her best to meet them. She demonstrates compassion and care, support of others, and selflessness. These are the qualities that define a good leader. It’s such a simple gesture and such a small moment, but it’s this scene that cements why Ursula is the leader that the Demeter survivors need

[thunder-opossum]

@kaceyunderfell 's au of my au

Raincloud bared her unusually sharp teeth, "How could you have just lived amongst them after all they did to our family?!"

Sizzle lowered his body, his ears pinning. "Well, they saved my life and kept me alive. They may have endangered you, Mom, and myself, but they've made it up to me."

"I WAS THE ONE WHO WAS SUPPOSED TO PROTECT YOU!" Raincloud shouted, "The scavangers stole you, separated us!" She clutched her spear, stabbing it into the soft ground. "None of us even knew if anyone else was alive!"

"Sister- Raincloud, what happened was terrible, but we shouldn't judge an entire species from one action." Sizzle inhaled shakily, "They have cared for me, admitted their mistakes, I've learned their point of view."

"What if I was actually dead? What if Mom had died?" Raincloud said coldly. "Would you still love your captors? Knowing they distinctly killed your family?"

"T-thats just-"

"What if they didn't take you in! What if they left you to die. Would you still feel empathy?"

"-Yes." Sizzle stressed his words. "Because there are still scavangers who wouldn't have done what my tribe did."

Raincloud relented, "What happened to you..." She tore her spear back out of the ground. "I won't tell Mom I found you," The blue slugcat turned away, preparing to climb back up the mound of garbage. "You have the rest of the cycle to do whatever you need."

"I love you, Raincloud." Sizzle spoke with grievances weighing heavily on his heart.

"...We love you too, please come back to us." Then she was gone.

[littleplantfreak]

'When', not 'if'

("I'm not a romantic" I cry and scream before dropping the most sickening thing i've written to date. Blame @stunie because i did tell her i would write the most ume thing ever and maybe this is it. The title in my docs for it is 'Fucking disgusting' but i figured i better not title it that here because I'd be seeing it in my notifs lmaoo)

SFW/no cw unless you hate fluff

When you wake up from your nap, one of your slippers is gone, and there's a blanket on you that wasn't there prior. Looking at the clock, it's been about an hour since everyone had left your apartment once your birthday party ended. The day as a whole had been chaotic, your boyfriend shoving you out the door with a note to go see Kotoha.

The note took you farther than that, though, as it seemed Umemiya created a whole scavenger hunt for your birthday that had you running into all of your friends, having dessert at your favorite cafe, and eventually ending up at your shared apartment to find that all that time spent around town was a distraction so that he could set up the space for your party. After it had ended, you were banished to the couch because princesses aren't allowed to help clean up their own birthday parties, which had you huffing and falling face down into the chicken shaped pillow affectionately called Mr.Clucky.

It was a product of your boyfriend's endless cycle of hobbies when he took up sewing. A little lopsided and overfilled with stuffing, you complained to and into Mr.Clucky with your face pressed into him. Apparently, he was soft enough to fall asleep on because before you knew it, you had been drooling on him the entire hour. Prying yourself off the couch took more effort than was almost worth it before your eyes fell on the reason you were so tired to begin with.

Hajime smiles and hums looking at your bleary eyes. "Good morning sunshine, I was just about to take you to bed," he says, folding a dish towel over a chair. You toss off the blanket and grab on the slipper that fell under the living room table before padding up to him. Dipping your hands under both of his arms to lock them together behind him, now your face is in his chest instead of the chicken, which is entirely preferred.

"Don't wanna go to bed just yet," you muffle, sinking even deeper into him when both of his arms wrap around you in support. He smells like dish soap and birthday cake, and you turn your head to hear the heartbeat in his chest.

"What do you wanna do lovey? You know I'd give you the world if you asked," you can hear the rumble of his voice in his chest with your pressed ear. He's cheesy, but half asleep, you feel just as much, if not cheesier.

"I have the world if I have you, they're one in the same. So just you is more than fine." Your eyes are closed, but you feel him shiver a little. "I wanna dance with you, though," you say, voice still soft and kinda raspy from sleep.

"Dunno if I can top what you just said even when I propose," he chokes out a laugh, or at least you think it's one. He shifts his hold a bit and starts leading you both in a lazy sway that starts near the toaster and ends next to the potted plant at the back door before starting over.

"When? Not if?" You tease him, a hand going to scratch the nape of his neck lightly.

"I'll never meet another you, so I'm pretty set on When."

"I'll say yes." Because you will. You can't imagine a life where you wouldn't.

"And I'll still cry when you do." You can tell he's crying now because it comes out shaky and his hold tightens a bit, before you lean back, stopping your impromptu waltz. Both of your hands come up to cup his face and look at his teary grey eyes before cooing at him.

"You big baby! Save those tears for When please. You'll be congested and sniffley all night if you don't stop." You start cleaning off his face with your sleeve, but he stops one of your hands and starts peppering your palm and wrist with small kisses. "I think I'm ready for bed now. Princess's orders," you say, dragging him towards your bedroom. You'll have to figure out tomorrow just how soon When is going to be, but for now you can hear the slow thumps of Hajime's steps as he follows behind you, squeezing your connected hand. It's not pressing in the least, you think, because it feels like there will be plenty of tomorrows too.

-----

When you wake up in the morning, it takes you an hour to realize Hajime had put the ring on your finger while you were asleep.

It takes you five minutes to run through town in your pajamas, barefoot to find and full on tackle him in front of the place he was about to get your breakfast in.

And it takes about two minutes of unintelligible blubbering on both your parts before anyone understands what is going on.

No one timed it, but if they did, it would've taken less than ten minutes for the whole town to find out via texts, calls, and yells down the streets and through windows that you're engaged.

[kiiingsnake]

you (your mind), you (your body), you (the rot that’s growing inside you), and you (the corpse of your twin)

[susaken456]

Ok, this might not make any sense but... I adore how Scavengers Reign revolves about adapting. Not in an evolutive sense, but in an "abstract" way, related to how they act regarding Vesta and its alienness.

Levi and Ursula are clearly the ones that keep an open mind, they care to stop and smell the flowers, connecting with Vesta by respecting its ecosystems. It's because of their willingness to understand the planet that they can cope with it so easily.

Azi and Sam know how to use Vesta's biodiversity to their advantage but they antagonise them at the same time, Sam especially. I find interesting how in both stories, they end up reconciling with Vesta.

Azi starts off treating Levi like a robot. When Levi starts showing signs of conciousness, she's wary. And when she eventually accepts that her companion is fully sentient, she embraces it. Later on, if we interpret Levi being "reborn" as an extension of the Vesta, Azi pretty literally embraces them.

Sam, on the other hand, vocally hates the planet (though I believe this may be due to casualty, given the disastrous reason they are there in the first place) and wants to get to the Demeter as fast as he and Ursula can. His aggressive attitude towards the flora and fauna is answered with, well, agression. He ends up facing more deadly sitations than others as a result. But in episode 10, when he sees the Demeter and is sure Ursula can get to it safely, he let's go. He no longer needs to fixate on the future, and so relaxes. He lays down and watches in silence as a tiny spider-like creature goes about around him. He admires Vesta's nature for what might be the first time, and earns himself a small sweet moment in a bitter end.

I have so many other thoughts about this, but this is becoming too long. I love overanalysing this series so much

[kelocitta]

i saw your post on how you were thinking about handling the Whole Artificer Thing and i say, let em be a villain! i think it would be fun

I don't have any qualms about Artificer being cruel or whatever; I just don't think that when working them into an anthro doing a 1-to-1 transfer of their behaviors and/or making them just flat out racist/genocidal is an interesting or accurate way to characterize them. (and I just have. Negative interest in working with that type of character) People can do whatever they want but ultimately I just find the idea that anything other making them aggressively genocidal is like, woobifying them, tiring.

Artificer is obviously not good in the context of the game. But the problem and focus of their actions is the scale and spiritual aspect of it, not the actions themselves. Other slugcats are perfectly capable of killing scavengers, most players likely will and many who don't are only held back by the consequences. Scavengers are also warriors, and Artificer's whole campaign is basically set up on the fact that scavengers are defensive and very much follow a 'shoot first' method of self preservation.

So why does Artificer have always be the one thats uniquely villainous in behavior (now with significantly more moral weight behind it than they had as an animal) when the other slugcats, and even the scavengers, get properly 'civilized' when people make them anthros? I just don't think its an interesting way to utilize them, and I won't fault people who do- but like- I feel like if Artificer is going to be Like That when they can walk and talk and do taxes or whatever than at bare minimum the other slugcats and scavengers' relationship with violence/murder/hunting should be touched on.

I'm not making Artificer a good person. I don't want them to be a good person, because I think the fact they are so bad that they have problems on a spiritual level to be the interesting part. Technically, the Artificer I do for anthro stuff has already done their 'Scav King' and found their 'closure'. They set out to do something awful and did it, they got their ending. So now theyre just old and tired and mean and miserable because getting what you want isnt a solution.

[hoiststowline]

loml

spinister x reader

Mostly in disbelief, Misfire moves his gaze between the side of your head and the mech at his front, expression distorted into one of mild disgust. "If you say 'that's so hot' one more time, I'm gonna slam my servo in the nearest door,"

A pout forms on your lips, unimpressed that he had interrupted your gawking session rather than encouraged such behavior. About three dozen feet ahead of the both of you, just out of earshot, Spinister stretches, splaying his servos wide so that you get a perfect view of his figure.

It's an almost unholy sight, watching the way his left hip juts out just a bit, presenting you the entire expanse of his back, for once, without the weapon that typically rests there. If he was facing you, though, then your godawful survey would be revealed, unable to hide from his unblinking crimson stare, likely asking you why your face looked like that.

"But-" You start, reluctantly tugging your gaze from such a sight, but unable to finish as he continues.

"And if you say 'but it is,' you need help. Seriously." Arms now crossed over his chest, he cocks one hip outward as if to display his vast disinterest in your choice of admirer.

With a sigh, your shoulders slump forward, fingers grasping the edge of the counter presently perched on. "I should never have told you. Let me be a mess in peace, Misfire,"

"You did no such thing, captain obvious." He laughs, now nudging you gingerly with an elbow. "It's kinda like this ship's best-kept secret. Everybody knows, except for that bolts for brains."

Spinister brings his arms back to his sides, standing just behind Krok as he mulls over coordinates that have no rhyme or reason, undecided as to where to land. "I don't know how dating works in your terms, but right now I am one hundred percent in a situationship."

"You're lucky if he even realizes you're in the room," A third joins your conversation, Crankcase sidling up to your left, addressing his datapad more than the two of you. "Give it a rest, y/n. It ain't worth the trouble you've gone to already."

“I didn’t think himbo would be your type.” Misfire jabs, loud enough that both Krok and Spinister turn to stare at the small party that had gathered. You jump, hopeful that nobody heard that other than the intended recipient.

“Shouldn’t you guys be doing literally anything else other than standing there?” Krok gravels, rolling his eyes as you wave at the medic sweetly, smiling so hard your cheeks began to hurt. “There’s a million things we have to do before taking off,”

Spinister waves back, mildly confused, but happy nonetheless.

“I’m working.” Crankcase shrugs, but when you peer over at the datapad, he’s playing solitaire.

“I just woke up from a nap.” Misfire answers, nonchalant as if he didn’t have a list of things needed to be completed. “And y/n’s been drooling over here for Primus knows how long—“

“Have not!” But it doesn’t help as your palm subconsciously reaches upward to swipe under your bottom lip, fearing he was telling the truth. “I did my responsibilities, thank you very much.”

“Drooling?” Spinister asks, helm tilting to the side. “Do you have a vitamin B12 deficiency?”

Krok pauses, looking up at Spinister with the most intense stare of ‘what the actual fuck did you just say?’, while Misfire erupts in a fit of laughter.

“No? I don’t think so.” You match his action, angling your head to one side. “How do you know what vitamin B12 is?”

It’s not an insane question, none of them had a single clue about organic health or nutrition, so it being Spinister that whips that diagnosis out of nowhere does raise some eyebrows. Though he is the resident medic, you typically took your own well being into consideration, not out of spite, more-so resourcefulness.

“I have been doing my own research.” He says, crossing the cockpit easily to now stand over you, bathed entirely in his shadow. “I was worried if something were to happen to you, nobody would know how to heal it.”

You pale as he takes a gentle, but firm hold of your jaw between a thumb and an index finger, bending forward to asses all while totally invading your personal space.

“Dude has no idea what he’s doing,” Krok scoffs, and the irony of the double meaning slaps you coldly across the face.

“I’m fine,” You squeak, stiffening at how pitiful it sounded. “Thank you, but-I wasn’t drooling, and I don’t have a B12 deficiency.”

Spinister doesn’t seem to agree, grip faltering but relenting as you scramble away from his touch. “If you say so, y/n.”

“Now I’m going to take nap.” With a few unsteady steps, you clamber off your previous perch and stumble down the hallway, fingers prodding at the skin he just so casually touched.

“Were you trying to make her face that red?” Crankcase asks, once the door had closed back over. “Or was that unintentional. I can never figure it out with you.”

The medic looks between the three of them, and to no one’s surprise, he doesn’t understand. “What? What did I do?”

“A vitamin B12 deficiency? Really Spin?” Misfire croons, a common indifference piercing the air. “You could have done better, man. She literally sat here ogling at you and you just asked her if she wasn’t taking her vitamins.”

“Morons. You all are morons.” Krok has discussed this with you a hundred times over, and it all comes back to the same point, you didn’t have the nerve to say it to him. Misfire and Crankcase aiding and abetting was no help, and he’s pretty sure it makes the game they were playing null and void if they interfered as such.

“What part of your warped processor did you pull that scrap from?” Crankcase teases, still in a state of incredulity.

“Ha! That’s funny.” Nobody knows which part, but nobody cared to ask. “I just remembered it. I read it a few solar-cycles ago.”

That wasn’t the inquiry that needed to be solved, but in his mind, that was the first step toward finding the root of the problem. “Do you know what just happened?” Misfire ex-vents, failing to stifle his uncontrollable laughter. “You broke y/n, dude.”

It takes Spinister an embarrassing amount of time to find you, though you were not where he initially thought you would be. Not your room, and not even remotely close to the Medbay, he wanders aimlessly around until he reaches the very end of the small ship, finding a cargo area that was rarely used.

His footfalls alert that your hiding spot has been discovered, but ultimately unbothered you continue on with your coloring book as if it hadn't been. “Hi Spin,” You call, discarding a green crayon to look for a purple one.

“Hi. What are you doing?” He comes to crouch just shy of your art supplies, elbows resting on his thighs. “Seems like fun.”

“Coloring to ignore the pain.” You reply easily, looking up at him through thick lashes, pausing mid-action. “You’re welcome to join, if you’d like.”

“Oh.” He blinks thrice before continuing. “Yeah. I would.”

Ever so carefully, he lowers himself onto his stomach, matching your pose as you slide the book forward, it now sitting between the two of you as you resume your distracted coloring.

“Why are you in pain?” He asks, picking up a blue crayon before beginning to prudently color in the background of the picture. “Is it the vitamin B12 deficiency?”

You want to laugh, lips pursing together at the comically small crayon pinched between his forefinger and his thumb, nothing stopping the massive mech. “Where’s the vitamin stuff coming from? I don’t have a deficiency, Spin. M’okay.”

“I started reading organic medical journals. Found some on that market we were at.” He doesn’t look your way, gaze fixated downward on the paper. “Especially after you cut yourself and we didn’t have anything to patch it up with,”

While that was true, it was also a paper cut. You needed a band-aid, not a frantic group of Cybertronians freaking out that you were going to ‘offline’. They meant well, just as much in the dark as you were, but it didn’t stop the frustration from spreading like wildfire.

“That’s…actually really sweet of you.” Relenting, you set the crayon down to offer him your full attention, doing the same himself.

“If it’s not that bothering you, what is?” Spinister is still daunting, even lying down this way, but his intense stare means entirely no harm.

Your eyes flit just behind him, tempted to start running as fast at you possibly could. "Everything." You complain, dropping your head into your hands, defeated and unable to meet his optics anymore. "I'm not sick, but I'm definitely unwell."

Spinister hums, as if he understood, but he most definitely did not. "I hope you feel better soon."

When you pull back, you find that he's got his chin in one servo, holding its weight as the other slides across the metal floor, digits just shy of your arm. "Thanks," You murmur, soft smile pushing through the embarrassment.

Just as it couldn't possibly get any worse, he reaches over and kindly pats the top of your head, finger sliding down to tuck a ruffled lock of hair back behind your ear. Visibly shuddering as a chill runs the length of your spine, it takes immense willpower to not crumble under his gentle weight.

"What's this supposed to be?" He asks, now fixated on your half-colored page.

"A flower." You turn the book around, now presented the right way around. "This keeps me busy. It's fun."

"I can see why." He hums, pulling his servo back to scoop the crayon back up, continuing his erratic strokes. "We should do this more often."

And in a moment of blind confidence, you agree. "We should."

[a/n: this is also going on ao3// for everyone who gives haunt and that scrapped drabble so much love, this one is for you!!]

@signedaiko <3 !!

[glitzybutt]

everyone's already saying how great it is, but specifically scavenger's reign does an incredible job of showing, not telling, which is a huge fucking flex because it's a show about people being in a very harsh, alien environment. every episode i'm continually impressed by many things, but especially this.

[stayatsam]

"Varric used to be mean and a centrist" the first time we meet Varric is roughly 20 years prior to Veilguard, and the Varric in Inquisition, who we see become a responsible father figure to Cole, is from 10 years prior to Veilguard

i think its' actually very fortunate that we got to see Varric grow from being a carefree, kind of jerky guy running a spy network in Kirkwall to someone who learns that he has the power to change the world for the better to make a safer place for him and his friends to live in, and also that he feels good when he knows he can be responsible for other people

just a thought idk. i see so many complaints about missing DA2 Varric as though he didnt see Kirkwall's destruction firsthand. he's really shaken by it in Inqusition dialogue and banter, he developed as a character. this isn't a new sudden change brought on by veilguard

[catboymettaton]

[ID: a banner that says "beauty queen on a silver screen." the background image is an Instagram post in progress featuring Light Yagami's face. the title text covers up his eyes. end ID]

in which L investigates the Yagami children's Instagrams

450 words - read on ao3

--

Sayu Yagami’s Instagram page was typical for a 14 year old girl. Chaotic, scattered, uncultivated and authentic. She flashed peace signs with her friends, took out of focus photos of late night concerts, and captured her brother’s worst angles. The latter shots always included a blurry hand reaching to snatch the phone away.

On December 27 at 4:42pm, Sayu had been at the mall with her friends, nowhere near the Yamanote Line. Not proof of innocence, but relevant regardless.

L opened up her story archive - private to most, but not to him. He scrolled back to early December. The day of his face off with Kira, she’d posted “OMG WHATS HAPPENING ON TV???? WHOS THIS L GUY???????” accompanied by a shocked selfie.

Kira would certainly never make a post admitting guilt, but feigning shock to deceive L seemed entirely in character. However, it could just as likely be a genuine reaction. As he scrolled back, he found that this was Sayu’s standard typing style; she loved to abuse caps lock and punctuation.

All in all, Sayu appeared to be a perfectly normal 14 year old girl. She had barely posted about Kira since that first story; it seemed she was more concerned about Hideki Ryuga and jokes her friends told and how annoying her mom was. None of this ruled her out as a suspect, but none of it was particularly damning either.

Next, Light Yagami. His father was shocked that L could consider him as a suspect. He was an incredible student and a loyal son. Until his senior year, he’d volunteered with a local tutoring service and received stellar reviews. His clients described him as kind, understanding, and supportive. Matsuda described him as a good friend, though L took all of Matsuda’s judgements with a heavy grain of salt.

Light Yagami’s Instagram was as perfect as he was. Beautifully composed shots of coffee next to homework. Sheets of notes, every character drawn with clean, crisp strokes, highlighted with pleasant pastels. He never posted his face, but often his hand gripping a pen. He was ambidextrous - naturally or through practice, L wondered.

It was too perfect. It was too clean, too neat.

He had posted three stories in the three years he had the account, all of them wishing Sayu a happy birthday. His sister’s chaos would have shattered his perfect page if he had allowed it to persist past the twenty-four hour mark.

Light had never even deleted or archived a post. He had never posted anything he regretted.

It was obvious that Light spent a considerable amount of time cultivating his reputation. A very useful skill to have as Kira.

L adjusted his mental models. 55%.

[tiny-tardis]

Scavenger Hunt Item #30

Well, it looks more like a well than a tower, but still, as indicated in scavenger hunt #30, I killed some time and tidied up my desk.. sorting out my gel and fountain pens..

(and realizing that I actually have about 12 different pens with different tones of purple ink and five with green ink...and also that there are only two regular blue pens💀)

[trebuchet151]

This is jumping the queue bc some really cool people reblogged my last post of Corey and they escaped containment.

Updated sidestep design perpetual WIP

Sidestep days vs retribution. They're slowly reacquiring their self expression. Next book will probably be the full return of the scene/punk look

Bonus Corey sans most of their clothing to show off their tattoos under the cut. CW for healed SH scars

Yes that is Ortega's bedroom yes I half assed it. I drew this background in my car at work when it was like 110 degrees idgaf

[angelsaxis]

I can't stop thinking about Sam and Ursulas relationship to the planet and to nature, and how Ursula was so connected to and in tune with a lot of it in the beginning because she didn't see nature as something to be pushed past or ignored or fought through. She waited and she watched and she listened and it solved their problems for the most part. And Sam was the total opposite, and he was the one who KEPT getting bit or infected or harmed by something. And yes Ursula was in danger as well, but I think it says a lot that Sam succumbed to a parasite.

[random-kido]

Weird vampiric cannibal guy having a little snack with assistance from husband who may also be a weird vampiric cannibal guy

Spouse that’s a chronic worrier 🤝 spouse willing to get mauled

making sure they’re each ok and assure one another that no permanent damage has been done after a bite session